You Better Run Fast
by LaughingFreely
Summary: "New case?" Sams asks, cocking his head and grimacing as the ice pack touches his skin. "Yeah," Dean replies, flipping his phone shut. "Apparently Bobby thinks some funny stuff is going on up in Illinois. He's putting another hunter on the Wendigo, we'll be out by morning as soon as we're packed." Set during Season 1 (yes there is Bobby) Oneshot for now, though could change.


Sam Winchester's arms pump wildly at his sides and his thighs and calves scream in protest as he jumps over a fallen, decaying tree branch that has fallen across the path. His lungs feel as though they could collapse at a moment's notice, but he keeps running. After being away at Stanford for so long, Sam- though he would never, ever admit it- had begun to fall out of shape. The college rec rooms only provided so much, after all, and it sure as hell didn't offer the same motivation that comes with being a hunter.

From somewhere behind him, though not nearly far _enough_ behind him, Sam can hear the crunch of dead leaves as he Wendigo races after him and Dean, a series of grunts and snarls escaping the creature's mouth. _Yep, there's that motivation. _

_Shit. _

Up ahead, he's barely able to make out his brother's leather jacket as Dean runs in front of him.

_Hopefully he's far enough ahead that the Wendigo will be satisfied if he catches me, then maybe he'll forget about Dean._ Sam reasons._ Or at least it'll give him more time to escape. _

But, of course, Dean isn't about to let anything like that happen.

"Sam, come on!" Dean barks once he realizes his brother has fallen behind. "Keep running, or I swear to God I'll shoot you myself before Fugly back there has a chance to touch you."

"Jerk," Sam calls out, hating how winded he sounds. Dean's going to ride his ass about this for a week after this is over.

"Out-of-shape, bitch!" His brother retorts, cursing when they're forced to take an unexpected, sharp right turn.

At least now they're protected behind a thin barrier of moss hanging from the trees. Meaning if the creature wants to charge them from the side, it'll have to guess where they are; buying them at least a little time.

Low-hanging branches, and other woodsy-type shit that Sam couldn't care less about, scratch his face as he runs past. Looking ahead he's shocked, and beyond pissed, when he sees Dean starting to slow down. Sam knows his brother's stamina is far greater than his at the moment, so he has no idea just what the hell Dean thinks he's doing.

Sam voices these thoughts, demanding an answer. His voice is gruff and his aching calves feel as though they're slowly turning to slush.

"Well, Samantha, I figured if this S.O.B. catches you then I can't let you go alone." Dean pants, falling back so now he's just barely ahead, Sam nearly stepping on the back of his boots. "The concussion is going to hurt like a bitch, but it'll be easier to save your sorry ass if I'm dragged back to the Wendigo's cave with you. You know," Dean shrugs the best he can while running, "a whole lot better than trying to find that old mineshaft again. Besides," Sam can just _hear_ the cocky grin in his brother's voice, even as winded as it may be, "I can't let my baby brother be the easier target."

"Dean, no!" Sam shouts, choosing to ignore the 'baby brother' comment. This is _so_ not the time for protective older brother.

But, in all honestly, when is Dean ever not in protective, older brother mode?

"Keep running!" Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, Sam groans as he forces his legs to pick up even more speed. "Run." The younger man croaks again, barely able to speak as he shoves his brother's back, forcing him to run ahead once again.

Dean grins. "There's my Sammy!"

"'t's S'm."

Dean snorts, "Not gonna be able to break me out of habit that easy, _kiddo_."

Both brothers' eyes widen in panic when they hear a particularly loud snarl from behind a particular thick curtain of moss. Dean's fingers twist in Sam's flannel sleeve as he yanks his brother's arm and all but drags him along.

Up ahead through the tree line, Dean is able to spot the Impala right where he left her. He baby, his sweet, sweet baby. They're so close, only a solid twenty feet away at best. He's already fishing the keys out of his pockets when he feels Sam fall like a pile of bricks onto the ground, crying out.

Damn thing had finally caught up, and it _had_ targeted Sam after all, sinking its claws into his brother's arm. In one fluid motion, without letting go of Sam, Dean pulls his gun from between his bareback and the waistband of his boxers. Pulling a disoriented Sammy to his chest, Dean maneuvers the gun around Sam, careful to avoid shooting directly near his brother's head to not bust his eardrums, and fires the flare at Fugly's head aiming right between the eyes.

The Wendigo dodges, letting loose of its grip on Sam's arm as the flare singes the side of its face. Even as it scurries off and disappears back into the tree line, Dean pulls his brother towards the Impala wasting no time. No telling when the thing would decide to show its face again. He gently helps Sam into his side, slams the door and pats the muscle car one time to apologize to his baby before sliding over her hood.

Shoving the keys into the ignition, Dean yanks the car into reverse and throws his arm behind Sammy's head as he maneuvers out of the pebble parking lot.

Speaking of Sammy, the kid is breathing _hard_.

"Geez man, I knew you were out of shape but-"

"No," Sam strains, gritting his teeth. "Not that."

Dean notices how flushed and feverish his brother seems, and how he's cradling his right arm.

"Sam?" No response. "Sam!"

"Arm," he finally replies. "Shut up, D'n." He mumbles. "Tired."

"Oh, _shit_," Dean hisses when Sammy turns enough for Dean to see his shredded arm. "Motel or hospital, man? It's your call."

"Motel." The kid slurs. "Nothin you can't handle."

Dean winces, "You sure about that? I think this exceeds a dab of Neosporin and a Hello Kitty Band-Aid."

"Please D'n. Motel."

The older man watches as the kid's head lulls to the side, his eyes going in and out of focus and scaring the hell out of Dean.

Deciding that it would probably not be wise to try and argue with Sammy this time, Dean presses his foot harder onto the gas, speeding off into the direction of their crummy motel where a bottle of whiskey and first-aid kit awaits them.

* * *

"_Ahh_," Sam moans, hiding his face in his good shoulder, "careful, Dean." He's propped up against the pillows on his bed and the back of his head rests against the backboard.

Dean doesn't respond, used to whiney injured little brother, and instead just proceeds slowly in folding Sam's sleeve up his arm so that he can inspect the damage. Eventually he realizes the patience crap isn't working for him, and seeing that he couldn't fold the sleeve up to Sam's shoulder, he slices the fabric with the skinny scissors he had retrieved from the first-aid kit.

"I liked that shirt."

Dean fought against rolling his eyes at Sam's constant whining, knowing how he gets when he's sick or hurt. Always whiny, clingy, and just _that_ much more bitchy.

Walking over to the small coffee table where Dean had left the first-aid kit, he rummages around before closing his grip on a bottle. Retrieving two pills and the glass of water he had already poured, Dean sits it on Sam's nightstand waiting for him to hold out his hand.

"Since you prefer to do things the pill method…" Dean says easily, dropping them carefully into his brother's palm and watching to make sure he swallows the pills.

"Yeah, well," Sam says after taking a sip from the glass of water. "I don't think your _drink everything in sight _method works any better."

"Oh, so young and naïve," Dean smirks. "Never grow up, Samantha."

Sam huffs, blowing his fringe out of his eyes so that he could properly glare at his older brother. In all honesty though, he doesn't mind the teasing. If Dean feels comfortable enough to give him a hard time right now, then he can't be hurt that bad. His brother isn't worried, so Sam won't be either.

He watches as Dean steps into the bathroom and flinches at the unexpected bright light that floods their small room. Returning with a damp washcloth, Dean grimaces.

"Sorry Sammy, probably should have done this first." Crossing the room, Dean takes a seat on the edge of his brother's bed, dabbing away the dried blood and avoiding the deep incisions on Sam's arm. Plopping the now blood-stained cloth on the nightstand, Dean sets to undoing the buttons of his brother's flannel shirt.

_I liked that shirt, my ass_. Dean thought. _As if you don't have a whole duffle full of the same thing, smartass. _

"What, no dinner first?"

"Sorry, I don't sleep with whiny bitches."

Sam snorts. "Dude, since when?"

"Shut up so that I can look at your side." Dean grumbles, not being able to deny anything. "Don't think I didn't notice back at the mine when Fugly threw you into the wall."

Dean hisses when he sees the large bruises blossoming on his brother's side, a trio of colors painting their way in blue and black and purple along his ribs.

"Holy shit, Sam!" Dean berates. "No fucking wonder you had such a hard time running back there. Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam drew a harsh breath between his teeth when Dean's fingers ghost carefully over his side.

"Relax," Dean said softly. "I'm not gonna touch it," he pauses, "_yet_ anyway. Sorry, Sammy, but I'm gonna have to make sure they aren't broken. I'll do that after I stitch you up. What do you wanna say, thirty-five sound reasonable?"

Sam shakes his head. "Twenty-seven."

Dean grins, retrieving the spool and needle from the first-aid kit, wincing sympathetically for the kid as he gets everything ready. He knows Sam can deal with just about everything, but stitches never go over too well.

"Damnit," Sam grits his teeth, his fists gripping the bedspread as he feels the needle pierce his skin, and winces at the uncomfortable tugging of the wire. Dean's hands are gentle and careful and precise, and Sam is grateful for the great care Dean takes whenever he patches him up. It wasn't Dean's fault that stitches hurt so fucking bad, and Sam has to admit he's grateful that his brother is also one of the quickest people he knew when it came to the job.

Sure enough, in no time Sam hears the snipping of scissors and knew the worst is over.

"Twenty-nine stitches in all." Dean mumbles, distractedly while he grabs the whiskey bottle and gauze. "I don't know how you always win."

"Just that lucky, I guess." Sam grumbles half-heartedly, groaning when he sees the whiskey bottle in his brother's hand.

"Aw Dean, no more Peroxide?"

Sam winces at the stinging the spilled whiskey causes his arm, but knows it's mandatory when Dean plays doctor for the night.

"Sorry Sammy, ran out last month when the poltergeist slammed my head on that tombstone. But hey," Dean shakes the bottle a bit, sloshing the contents around. "Whiskey is nature's Hydrogen Peroxide."

Dean smirks as he wraps his little brother's arm with the white bandages and tapes it.

"Not too tight?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"Perfect. Can I get the ice now?"

Dean snorts. "I just perform the operation of my life and I still get ordered to do your bitch work." Setting his hands on his knees Dean pushes himself up from the bed, ruffling Sam's head of floppy hair as he heads for the fridge.

As Dean's pouring the ice into one of the many icepacks the Winchesters keep stocked,_ Smoke on the Water _begins playing from his pocket.

Retrieving the phone from his back pocket, Dean checks the number before opening it and balancing it between his shoulder and cheek.

"Talk to me, Bobby."

Sam's ears perk when he hears the mention of Bobby, easily catching the ice pack that Dean tosses him with his good arm. Sam presses it gently to his arm and around the bandaged area as he listens to the seemingly one-sided conversation. Mostly Bobby talking with Dean grunting and humming in response to almost everything.

"New case?" He asks, looking up at his brother when the older man hangs up.

Dean looks at Sam's tired, hazel eyes and wonders how the kid was still awake. Usually two tablets of Benadryl and lightweight Sammy was out like a light.

"Yeah, apparently Bobby thinks some funny stuff is going on up in Illinois. He's putting another hunter on the Wendigo, we'll be out by morning as soon as we're packed."

"Which part of Illinois?" Sam asks, gritting his teeth as he sets the cold ice on an extra sensitive part of his arm.

"That, Sammy," Dean says, grabbing the rest of the bandages from the bin so he could start wrapping Sam's ribs, "is where it gets interesting."


End file.
